


Inked Braid

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Dry Humping, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 00:20:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3229130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bard drastically muddles Dwarven propositions, while Thorin will do anything to get across that lake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inked Braid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MocaJava](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MocaJava/gifts).



> A/N: Fic for anon’s “For Dwarves, when a non-relative plays with your beard, that's a signal that they're interested in you. Tugging? That's 'let's fuck right now'(or if you choose one of the Dwarves with small beards it can be their moustache,braids, whatever floats your boat). So for some reason Bard ends up doing such a thing and the Dwarf is more than willing to accept the 'proposition'. Bard is shocked at first but really, he's not objecting much once the Dwarf starts with the foreplay.” request on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=24276597#t24276597).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The dwarves are _exasperating_. At first they seem to think he’s in the habit of smuggling outlaws, jeopardizing the long-standing truce with the men of the lake and the elves of the woods. Then they try to sell him on some mystic idea of helping some cosmic quest for good that they won’t at all explain to him in any tangible detail. Then they follow him all the way down to the dock, promising coins that they can’t seem to produce. None of them seem to care that what they’re proposing is not only dangerous but _deadly_ , and he’s already on thin ice with the Master of the town, and he has three small children to protect. He can’t go about illegally ferrying fugitives across the dark lake.

Eventually the biggest one tries to scare Bard into it, and the one with the longest, whitest beard tries to guilt him into it, and the little halfling—who’s actually fairly polite and pleasant but still isn’t enough to counteract his thirteen troublesome friends—tries in vein to salvage dialogue. Finally, Bard waves them all away and takes off down the twisted, rocky shores along the dock, under the guise of fetching cargo when he is, in fact, trying to get a moment’s peace.

But then the silent one follows him, the big, brooding one with dark hair and dark eyes, boring into him. Around the shelf of rock they go, just the two of them, and when the dwarf doesn’t take Bard’s clear signals to _leave,_ Bard finally turns on his heels to say, “No.”

The dwarf, who the others called Thorin, or something of the like, says with a too-commanding air, “We _need_ to cross. We’ll do whatever it takes.” It doesn’t sound like an open-ended offer so much as a threat. Bard’s life is too miserable on a regular basis to take those, and he simple glares, standing firm. Thorin takes a long step right up to him, and although Thorin’s shorter, his presence is infinitely larger. He’s thick and clearly strong, draped in hefty cloth and battered armour, and he growls, “What will it take for you to see reason?”

It’s such an absurd statement. Bard _is_ seeing reason. Any of his kinsmen would’ve fled by now, but Bard’s never been one to run. He stands exactly where he is, even though the toes of Thorin’s boots are almost touching his. Something possesses him to reach out, and he grabs a fistful of Thorin’s great beard, tugging it fiercely down to hammer his point across. He says very clearly, “Your money’s not enough.”

He half expects to be hit, but he stands there all the same. Except that a sudden shock has come over Thorin’s face, and he finally takes a step back. For a fleeting moment, Bard thinks he’s won, the dwarves will leave and that will be that, but then he realizes that Thorin’s sizing him up. Thorin’s deep eyes are running up Bard from stem to stern, like he’s a piece of meat rather than a breathing person with legitimate complaints. It’s even more infuriating. 

So Bard takes a step forward, grabs Thorin’s beard again, ignoring the grunt that escapes Thorin’s throat. He holds Thorin’s chin up, forcing the dwarf to look him square in the eyes. His grip tightens with the knowledge that Thorin is a strong enough man to break free at any time, but for whatever strange reason, he stays rooted to the spot. Bard gives it another sharp tug to make Thorin gasp and says sternly, very clearly, “Do you understand me?”

Thorin grunts, “Perfectly.” They stay frozen in position for one agonizing moment, where it takes Bard an extra few seconds to jerk his own hand back, surprised that Thorin hasn’t batted it away. Only when Bard’s fingers are out of his beard does Thorin spring to life. 

He shoves Bard so hard that Bard goes stumbling backwards. Caught off guard, he’s herded sharply against the rockface, the same one that shields them from the others. Thorin slams him into that makeshift wall, and Bard hisses in pain, but any obscenities he was going to utter don’t make it out of his mouth. 

_Thorin’s mouth is on his._ It hits him like glacial water, and Bard’s lips part in shock. It gives Thorin the chance to shove a wide, probing tongue into Bard’s mouth, instantly tracing the blunt rows of his teeth and lapping against the walls of his mouth. Bard splutters, lost, and Thorin must take that for him kissing back, because then their tongues are intertwined, pressing against one another, and Bard’s own traitorous body moves of its own accord, face automatically tilting so their noses won’t be crushed together. Thorin’s hands are on his biceps, holding him fiercely in place, Thorin’s entire body flushed against his. When Thorin leans in, it crushes out all his air, and Bard has to breathe furiously through his nose, his mouth still not released. The scratch of Thorin’s beards gnaws at Bard’s chin, his own down surprisingly softer. The hard slew of kisses doesn’t end until Bard comes to his senses enough to shove his knee against Thorin’s—not hard enough to break, but enough to say: _what the hell is going on?_

Thorin finally breaks apart from him, and Bard gasps for air. He manages to pull one of his arms free, half surprised when Thorin lets him, and he means to push Thorin away but somehow winds up tangling his fingers in Thorin’s beard again. He could use it to shove Thorin back, but Thorin chooses that moment to roll their hips together, and Bard cuts off in a choked noise. He can feel the bulge at Thorin’s crotch, just a little below his, dauntingly _huge_ —he can’t have felt that right—but Thorin does it again and Bard’s head swims. His fingers squirm in the long brush of Thorin’s hair, unable to decide. This is mad, of course, but Thorin is undeniably handsome, and it’s been a very, very long time since anyone touched Bard this way. Longer since he had a kiss so thrilling. Thorin stares at him, all fire, and _purrs_ , “You’re a rough one.” When he makes his voice soft like that, deep and thundering but silken, it’s so incredibly alluring. Bard shivers before he realizes what he’s done. His fist tightens in Thorin’s beard. 

Bard just barely manages to growl, “What are you doing?”

Thorin silences him with another kiss. It’s merciless but intoxicating, and Thorin rocks his hips again, grinding them relentlessly against Bard’s crotch, where his own erection is stirring. He’s never known much of dwarves, but he never thought he’d be attracted to one. Yet Thorin kisses like a king and claims Bard like he’s a concubine. There seems to be very little Bard can do but take it. He realizes, only peripherally, that Thorin’s brushing the cloak off his broad shoulders, letting it pour heavily to the ground. The wind is a cold affront against them, but Thorin’s attentions have Bard burning, body heat surging between them despite all the clothes in the way. Bard’s hands lift tentatively at his sides, but he doesn’t know whether to use them to push or pull. Thorin’s now fiddling with the front of his shirt, and that gives Bard the will to jerk his head aside and splutter, louder, “What are you _doing_?”

“Accepting your offer,” Thorin growls, just before sinking his teeth into Bard’s jaw. Bard gasps in surprise, mingled pain and arousal, his protests dying in his throat. Thorin gnaws at him like an animal, still pounding his body against the rock, one hard thrust after another. In amidst broad licks of that strong tongue and the sting of unforgiving teeth, Thorin hisses, “You have your payment.”

Bard mumbles, “What payment?” At the same time, he tilts his head back to give more room to Thorin’s mouth. Even in his confusion, he lets his body be ravaged, because he’s lost as hell but still ridiculously turned on, and then some of Thorin’s armour is falling, and he can feel Thorin’s broad chest through the thin tunic that remains. He can feel rock-hard pecs and the press of pebbled nipples, and one of Thorin’s arms loops around his waist while the other shoves right into the front of Bard’s trousers. He’d return the favour, but now he’s busy clutching onto Thorin’s shoulders, fingers tangled in Thorin’s hair. This is sheer insanity and every minute of it’s _delicious_.

“I’m not stupid,” Thorin snarls hoarsely at his throat, while thick fingers wrap around the girth of Bard’s cock. Dry, they tug at him with a burst of pleasure/pain, one stroke spilling into another, until Thorin is pumping Bard dutifully to the same rhythm of their hips. Bard can barely make out Thorin’s words: “You pulled my beard.”

Bard mumbles, “So?” It’s all he can manage. He’s obscenely hot—he needs to get out of these clothes—he wishes they were back in his home, collapsing onto a bed instead of grinding him back into hard stone, but there’s nothing for it. 

“That’s a proposition,” Thorin says. It’s so plain, as though anyone must know that, even though Bard’s never heard of such a thing. Dwarven tradition, maybe? He’s no dwarf; he had no idea. But he can hardly stop it now, not when he’s so _close_ and Thorin’s sinful mouth is all over him. It finds its way back to his just long enough to bite into his lips, nearly make him bleed and leave him squirming, writhing wantonly against Thorin’s hand and chest and greedy mouth. 

When Thorin leaves to bite at him again, Bard mutters, “No, I... I need the money.” He’s struggling in between gasps, foggy-headed—of course he’ll take them across, now, he _has to_ , but he has a family to feed and then he’ll at least need the money. He licks his dry, kiss-swollen lips and grumbles, “I didn’t think—”

Thorin stops and pulls back just far enough to look him in the eye. Bard’s flushed and panting, too full of lust to look anything but wrecked right now, and Thorin nods like he understands. “Good,” he grunts. “Pure desire, then?” And a smirk plays at the edges of his lips. Again, he’s completely misunderstood.

But Bard has to give up. Thorin lunges back into him, and with a few final pumps to his engorged cock, Bard is shrieking in ecstasy. His whole body goes rigid, his mind exploding, and the orgasm rips through him, pent up for too long, wrenching him to pieces—he spurts into Thorin’s hand and curls around the dwarf, wildly rutting his hips into all of Thorin’s beauty. His racing pulse is pounding in his ears. He can smell Thorin’s raw musk, the stench of _man_ , and the sex in the air. Thorin fills his arms, and he ruts to a heady end, mind blanking right out. 

He’s left reeling, slumped against Thorin but still pinned to the rock. He realizes only belatedly that Thorin’s snaked his other hand back into his own trousers and is bringing himself off. He’s wearing too many layers to see the stain come through, to see much of anything, and it’s a bizarre disappointment that clouds through Bard’s head. Thorin finished with the cry of a wild beast.

Thorin’s still strong afterwards, even though Bard’s boneless. When Thorin steps away from him, Bard sinks numbly to the ground, legs spreading out and back heavy against the stone. Thorin collects his discarded clothes. Bard’s belatedly sorry that more didn’t come off. 

Thorin nods his head decisively and tells Bard, “You’ll have your money, and we’ll have our passage.”

Bard dazedly nods back. Sure. Anything. Thorin dawns a faint smile, too knowing for Bard’s taste, and then he licks his lips: pure sex. 

“We can discuss more on the other side.”

He walks off before Bard can say he’s looking forward to it. He sits where he is for a good five minutes, cooling down and breathing in the crisp air, and wondering how he’s going to bring home a big, hairy dwarf to his kids. 

Then he heads back to the dock, formulating smuggling plans.


End file.
